


Postcards From Poughkeepsie

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: A lot of letters and postcards, Implied mental illness (OCD), M/M, Roadtrip!Travis AU, Wes drinks wine kind of a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes keeps getting postcards from a man he’s never met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards From Poughkeepsie

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by a post on tumblr with a list of various AUs. This AU was not actually on the list, but I got to thinking and came up with this.
> 
> NOTE: Wes and Travis are in their mid-twenties here.
> 
> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 06/15/14.

_“Send me things in the mail. Wherever you go, I don’t care where you go, just send me something in the mail from where you are.”_  
 _—Wallace Berman_

\---

“A’ight,” the landlord says, “here’s your keys, and this is for you.”

Wes stares at the box being offered to him. “What is it?”

“ ‘s from the previous tenant,” the landlord explains, pushing the box into Wes’s hands. “ ‘m sure the letter will explain.”

It’s a plain brown shoebox with an orange lid. A blank envelope is taped to the top. Completely harmless, but Wes holds it like it’s a bomb.

“I’m sorry, what is this?”

“ ‘s for you.” The landlord hooks his thumbs into his pockets and nods to himself. “How ‘bout I let you get settled? Call if you need anything.” He nods again, then strolls down the hall.

Wes frowns at the box, stepping into his new apartment. He sets it on the kitchen counter, takes a breath, and looks around.

It’s a nice apartment, plenty of space and bigger than his last. It’s got an open kitchen-living area, a little breakfast nook, and a bathroom and a bedroom off the living room. Nothing huge, but it’s a decent place for a first-year lawyer living alone. And reasonably affordable, which is nice.

Wes glances at the box on the counter again. Most people would let their curiosity overrule them—they’d sit right down and open it up.

Wes is not most people. He leaves the box where it is and starts to unpack.

\---

Since he is a practical man who just got out of law school, he doesn’t have much stuff, so he’s done unpacking in a matter of hours. With his moving boxes collapsed by the front door and a celebratory glass of wine in his hands, Wes places the shoebox on the coffee table and pulls the envelope free. He leans back on the couch, pulling out the letter as he does. It’s a neat, handwritten message, the words flowing easily over the lines.

_Dear Tenant,_ he reads.

\---

_Dear Tenant,_

_If you’re reading this, then you’ve just moved into apartment 612. Congratulations. It’s a lovely apartment, and all the neighbors are wonderful people. Roland, the super, he can dawdle on repairs sometimes, but he always gets things done, and Mrs. Gomez across the hall makes the best macadamia nut cookies you’ll ever taste. You’ll have to sit through half an hour of pictures of her grandkids to get them, but I promise it’s worth it._

_Some things you should know:_

_1\. The bedroom window sticks. No amount of WD-40 has unstuck it. Roland isn’t sure what the problem is, but he’s tried to fix it and nothing’s changed._

_2\. The hot water in the tub is temperamental. Here’s what you have to do: Turn on the cold water, let it run for about a minute, then turn on the hot water. If you don’t, you probably won’t get hot water at all._

_3\. The floors creak when it gets above 80 degrees. Keep this in mind if you have pets, as you may be woken unexpectedly in the middle of the night by creaky floors._

_4\. If you ever forget your keys and get locked out, ring 308. He’ll buzz you in without question._

_5\. Sometimes the dryer stops without warning. Just give it a kick and it’ll start up again._

_6\. The bedroom window is on the east side. Invest in blackout curtains. You won’t regret it._

_And lastly: The box. By now you’re probably wondering what that’s about, if you haven’t already looked inside. Here it is._

_There is a man named Travis on a cross-country motorcycle journey. You probably don’t know him. I didn’t. But every two or three weeks he sends a postcard here. I don’t know why._

_I kept the cards, collected them in the shoebox. You don’t have to. You can throw them out if you’d like, that’s what the tenant before me did. But I recommend you read them first, if nothing else. In the two and a half years I lived here, reading those postcards made me feel like I was on an adventure. Maybe it will feel like that for you, too._

_All the best,_

_Emily._

_P.S. If you find a bike lock, you can have it. I already bought a new one._

\---

Wes puts the letter down, staring thoughtfully at the box. He drinks the rest of his wine and thinks about simply chucking the entire thing. He could, just shove the thing in the trash and never think about it again. He has no use or interest in a random stranger’s cross-country trip. And he certainly doesn’t need _adventure._

Still, he drags the box in front of him and pulls off the lid. Call it curiosity.

Inside is a pile of postcards. Wes’s inner perfectionist cringes at the haphazard heap. He has no idea how may there may be, but just doing the math there’s got to be fifty or sixty.

Idly, he picks up one of the top cards. On the front is a picturesque view of the Grand Canyon, all burnished golden reds against a perfectly, cloudless sky.

On the back, in an untidy scrawl, the first line of the card says, _Do you think anyone’s ever jumped the Grand Canyon?_

Wes places the postcard back in the box and pours another glass of wine.

No, he doesn’t need any adventure in his life.

\---

He sticks the box in the front closet. He _could_ toss it, but trash day isn’t for another four days and Wes has very strong feelings about schedules. He’ll just wait.

Two days before trash day, he gets a postcard in the mail.

Wes stares at the cows on the front, scenically munching grass in front of a stereotypically red barn, and he seriously debates ripping it up and throwing it out right here and now.

Instead, he tucks it between a magazine and a piece of junk mail and takes it inside.

He couldn’t possibly explain it if he tried. There’s no reason to keep it even for a minute, except maybe to add it to the shoebox for trash day.

But he finds himself pulling the card out while his pasta water is boiling, flipping it over and squinting at the rough chicken scratch.

_Helped Farmer Murphy fix a hole in his fence_ , Travis writes. _Had to catch a cow. That was an experience. Got fifty bucks and dinner for the trouble. Best mashed potatoes I’ve ever tasted in my life._

And there’s something about it, something in the writing that just exudes enthusiasm and good cheer, and the corner of Wes’s mouth curls up minutely. He doesn’t even know what Travis looks like, but he tries to imagine it, a wandering drifter coming upon a broken fence and offering to help, and getting paid in food in return.

It makes him smile.

And he doesn’t care, he _doesn’t_ , but when his food is finished cooking, he pulls the shoebox out of the closet and sets it on the island. He sets out his food and fans out a handful of postcards like he’s brought work home.

Picking one at random, Wes starts reading.

\---

Postcard 46, postmark May 4, Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

A view of the Grand Canyon, taken right from the edge. The cliffs rise, astounding walls of burnt umber, and at the bottom a silver ribbon winds through the valley, all crowned by a perfect, cloudless blue sky.

Travis writes:

_Do you think anyone’s ever jumped the Grand Canyon?_

_I bet Evel Knievel has. I should look it up as soon as I get somewhere with internet._

_I wonder if I could jump the Grand Canyon?_

\---

Postcard 29, postmark August 18, Las Vegas.

A pair of cartoon dice showing snake eyes, tossed high in front of a slot machine showing 777. Poker cards fly through the air in the background.

Travis writes:

_Got twenty bucks in my pocket. Let’s see how high we can make that go. I’m feeling lucky._

\---

Postcard 59, postmark November 22, Bar Harbor, Maine

An ocean blue postcard, dark and lighter blues creating wave shapes. In the center are bold black letters spelling two words, ‘I’ and ‘Maine’, and in between the two words is a bright red lobster.

Travis writes:

_This is the best goddamn lobster I’ve ever tasted. I had no idea fresh lobster tasted so different. Oh man, I’m going to be ruined when I get home. This is so damn good. And there’s this, like, spicy garlic butter, I think it has chilis in it, my mouth is on fire but I can’t stop eating because it’s AMAZING._

_I wish I could mail you some of this just to show you what you’re missing out on. It’s SO GOOD._

\---

Trash day comes.

Trash day goes.

The shoebox never makes it to the garbage.

\---

Postcard 23, postmark May 29, Tooele, Utah

A view of Salt Lake, a glittering expanse of fresh blue in a sea of dusty brown rock. People float lazily in the lake, looking totally peaceful and content.

Travis writes:

_It’s the middle of the night, and I’m too tired to drive anymore. Haven’t seen a motel in hours, so I’m just gonna camp out tonight._

_I’ve never seen so many stars. You don’t get sights like this in LA. Wish I could take a picture and show you. It’s beautiful. Really makes you think about your place in the world and how small you are._

_Now I just hope snakes and scorpions don’t bite me tonight. I think they live out here._

\---

Postcard 56, postmark September 30, Belle Plaine, Iowa

An idyllic scene of a cornfield, rows of straight stalks standing green and proud. In one corner it says ‘Welcome To Corn Country!’ in corn cob yellow.

Both front and back are spotted with water, smearing the ink, warping the card so it will never lay flat.

Travis writes:

_Writing this in an abandoned barn in the middle of a downpour. The roof leaks. The weatherman lied to me. He said it would be sunny all day. I hate rain. It’s wet and cold and I’ll never be dry again._

\---

They’re out of order. He doesn’t realize it right away, but once he does, it bothers him. Three years of postcards in this box and they’re just thrown in there. Haphazard doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s like Emily would just dump the cards out every once in a while, shuffle them around, and stuff them back in the box when she was done.

Wes’s inner perfectionist won’t stand it. He comes home one day with sticky notes and a binder, sits down, and starts organizing. Five hours and three years of adventure later, he’s got sixty-three postcards neatly sorted by the date they were postmarked. In the binder he has a brief description of the card, as well as the location and date it was sent from, because he’s fastidious like that.

Wes spends twenty minutes studying his neat piles, nursing a glass of wine and musing.

Finally he scribbles a note to himself and goes to bed.

\---

Postcard 17, postmark March 4, New Orleans, Lousiana

A picture of a gold half-mask, bedecked with jewels in greens and blues and purples, with a garish peacock feather sprouting out of one side. In big bubbly letters, it says, ‘Happy Mardi Gras!’

Travis writes, in tilted, slightly incoherent letters that suggest drunkenness:

_Mardi Gras! Woo hoo! Party hard! Met this girl Angelique, she is FIIIIIINE. Lookit all the stupid drunk college kids down here. It’s gonna be GREAT._

_Wonder if Lorianne still lives down here. That was a summer I’ll never forget. Mmm._

_Angelique promises to show me the best parties. This is gonna be the BEST MARDI GRAS EVER!_

\---

Despite a long day and the start of a headache behind his eyes, Wes goes to the store and buys thumbtacks, string, and more post-it notes. He has to go to a specialty shop to get the last piece he needs, but he finally walks out with the biggest wall map of the United States they have.

The only place with enough space is the living room wall. Wes balks for a moment, because what if someone comes over and sees it? Then Wes would feel obligated to explain what it’s for, and how would _that_ conversation go? “Hi, yes, this is the wall map where I track the progress of a random stranger on his cross-country journey. No, I’ve never met him, why do you ask?” That would go well.

Then he reminds himself that he doesn’t actually have people over, because he’s not dating anyone and he really has no friends, and he gets to work.

He hangs the map up and starts going through the postcards, starting with the earliest. Each card corresponds to a thumbtack and a sticky note, and each thumbtack is connected with string to the next in line. Wes has to use Google to identify most of the smaller cities and towns, places he’s never heard of, but he gets it done.

He steps back, looking it over. The map is covered in cross-crossing lines of string, spanning the entire country, from Maine to the southern tip of Florida, to the high point of Washington and the dry desert of Arizona.

Wes can’t even imagine it, can’t imagine abandoning his carefully-planned life to just wander. Honestly, he can’t imagine just wandering around aimlessly in the first place—if he ever decided to do something like this, one of the first things he would make sure to do is plan an itinerary.

He can’t imagine it at all, and he finds himself fascinated with this person he’s never met, someone who just left everything behind and went on a road trip for more than three years.

Wes stares at the map on the wall and can’t help but wonder what it would be like.

\---

Postcard 27, postmark July 31, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

A photograph of what looks like a pool, greenish-grey water in the middle. The outer edges are yellows and golds and red-oranges, and steam rises from the surface. In the corner, a small box says ‘Sulfur Springs, Yellowstone National Park’.

Travis writes:

_It smells like farts here._

\---

The superintendent, Roland, sees the map and stops dead in his tracks, bushy eyebrows going up his forehead. “Woah.”

“Yes, well…” Wes tries to shuffle him through the living room. “The leak is in the bathroom, not the living room, so…”

Roland moves. Towards the map. “This is something.” He nods thoughtfully, looking at the thumbtacks and the sticky notes buried under the string. “What’s all the numbers about?”

Wes runs his hand over his face and sighs. “It’s…” _None of your business_ , he wants to say, but he’s worked with enough people to recognize stubbornness when he sees it. Roland is going to stand here as long as he damn well pleases, and that time might shorten significantly if Wes just tells him what he wants to know.

He bites the bullet and moves up beside the super. “It’s just a little project. I get these postcards from—”

“The bike guy, right?” Roland asks, snapping his fingers. “The one on that journey of self-discovery or something.”

That gives Wes pause. “I’m sorry, on a what?”

“Journey of self-discovery.” Roland shrugs nonchalantly. “I figure that must be it. I mean, why else would a guy go road-tripping for years if he isn’t a little lost?”

That’s extremely insightful. It really is. Wes kind of didn’t expect it.

Wes shakes his head and looks at the map again. “Well, if you know, that saves a lot of backstory. Anyway, I organized the postcards by date, and then I made a list. The numbers on the sticky note corresponds to that postcard.”

“So what, number ten is the tenth card in the pile?” Wes nods, and Roland makes a thoughtful noise. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…” The super shrugs. “Never saw anyone else get so invested.” Seemingly done with his study, Roland turns away from the map, hefts his toolbox, and moves towards the bathroom. “Alright, show me this leaky pipe.”

An hour later, Roland comes out, toolbox in hand, and announces, “Fixed the pipe.” Right on the heels of that, he nods to the map on the wall and says, “You want more cards?”

Wes’s hands stop in the middle of chopping celery. “You have more?”

“Yup.” The man hefts his toolbox with a shrug. “Guy before the girl before you just threw ‘em out. I saved a few of ‘em. Thought they were interesting.” He studies the wall for a long moment before nodding to himself. “Yeah. You want ‘em?”

Wes looks at his wall and thinks he really _shouldn’t_ take the cards. He’s already sinking deeper into this than he thought he would. He doesn’t need to go any further.

But on the other hand, if these cards are from the tenant _before_ the previous tenant, they’ll be some of the earliest cards, and Wes’s fingers itch to add them to the pile.

He sets down his knife and looks at the superintendent. “You know, I would like them.”

“Okay.” The super nods, heading for the door. “I’ll stick ‘em in your mailbox.”

\---

Postcard 72, postmark May 31, Roswell, New Mexico

There’s a picture against a wicker background, of three grey-bodied, black-eyed aliens standing in front of a crashed UFO in the desert. The biggest alien has a camera around its neck, and the smallest has a hat on its head. In the top left corner, in red cursive script, it says ‘Family Vacation’, and in the bottom, glowing neon green, the thin letters spell ‘Roswell, New Mexico’.

Travis writes:

_If you’re going to go on a cross-country trip, you have to hit all the spots. And Roswell is definitely a spot to hit._

_Roswell has embraced the aliens full-heartedly. I love it. Got a t-shirt and everything. It glows in the dark._

\---

Three days later, Wes gets a neatly-bundled stack of postcards in his mailbox. He instantly deposits the rest of his mail on the counter and goes to the living room.

It takes him forty-minutes to organize everything. There are twelve new cards in Roland’s stack, which means he has to re-order and re-number everything.

He finally sits back and looks at his wall and sighs.

This is stupid.

But he doesn’t want to stop.

\---

Postcard 3, postmark July 10, Panaca, Nevada

A photo view of the Las Vegas strip at night, a shining row of neon colors.

Travis writes:

_Got mugged in Vegas. I feel so stupid. You’re probably just throwing these away, aren’t you? You don’t care. No one cares._

_I’ve got a full tank of gas. In the morning we’ll see how far it takes me._

\---

“Oh my _god_ , what is _that?_ ”

“It’s nothing.” Wes tries to push past her, but Alex’s wide eyes are fixed on his wall and she doesn’t move. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Brushing his hands aside, she ducks under his arm and strides into his apartment, still staring at the map on his wall. Wes flinches in the doorway and runs his hand over his face. He briefly debates running, but there’s not many places he can escape too, and he would eventually have to come back. Sighing, he slowly closes the door and makes his way to her side.

She blinks at the wall. Then she turns and blinks at him.

And says, so very succinctly, “What the _hell?_ ”

He sighs again and gestures to the couch. “I’ll tell you. Do you want something to drink?”

Ten minutes later, she’s still staring at him, her glass of water untouched on the coffee table. This time the staring is less stunned shock and more concerned, and her eyes roam over his face like she’s trying to see inside his head.

“Wes,” she says slowly, after a long minute of silence. “Are you okay?”

He busies his hands by stacking the coasters and he doesn’t look at her. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She leans in, rests her hand gently on his arm. “Are you fixating on this?”

As politely as possible, he shrugs her touch off. “I’m not fixating.”

“It sure _seems_ like you’re fixating.”

“I’m not fixating.” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and he’s more defensive than he ought to be when he says, “It’s a _hobby_ , Alex. That’s all. I’m allowed to have a hobby.”

She turns and looks at the wall, at the red string and the neatly stacked binder on the coffee table. “Stamp collecting is a hobby. Jogging is a hobby. Embroidery is a hobby. This is…this just seems…like something you should watch out for.”

He bristles. “I’m _fine_ , Alex. And you’re not my girlfriend anymore, so you don’t have to watch for warning signs anymore, okay?”

She turns back to him, hurt written all over her face. “No, I’m not your girlfriend. But I _am_ your friend, and I’m allowed to be _concerned_ about you.” Her hand waves at the map. “Cataloguing the travel plans of a stranger you’ve never met isn’t something you’d normally do. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Wes bites his lip to keep from snapping, because okay, she does have a point. They’re friends, but they only just _became_ friends after so many years of being _more than friends_. He’s out of a steady relationship and he just moved and a lot of things have shifted in his life recently, and he’s always had to work to adapt to change, and they both know it. It’s easy to see why she could be concerned about him.

But she shouldn’t be. He’s totally fine and he’s not fixating or anything at all.

“It’s okay, Alex,” he says, softening his tone. He sees her relax a little in response. “I’m okay. I promise.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but she bites her lip and looks at the wall again. Because she’s his friend, but as _merely_ a friend there are some lines she can’t cross anymore. “Why are you so invested in this?” she asks, instead of the things she wants to say, the ones that would cross too many boundaries.

Wes follows her gaze to the wall, to the criss-crossing red string and the neatly labeled sticky notes, and finally has to admit, “I don’t know.”

\---

Postcard 69, postmark April 8, Tecumseh, Oklahoma

A picture of a stretch of road, grey-brown-green grass stretching to either side, with nothing but a perfect blue sky ahead, and a shield-shaped signpost that simply says ‘Route 66’.

Travis writes:

_There’s a certain type of person who hangs out in truck stops at four in the morning. They’re people who don’t have anywhere else to go. Truckers in the middle of their routes, graveyard shift workers who are too tired to care, drifters wearing their travels on their backs and their hearts on their sleeves._

_I never thought I’d end up the type of person who would hang out in a truck stop at four in the morning._

_The coffee is damn good, though._

\---

He thinks about it, in the days after, the question running through his mind. _Why are you so invested in this?_ And he just doesn’t know. He stares at the map on his wall and ponders

Maybe, he thinks, maybe it’s just a matter of two people reaching out. The cross-country traveler and the lawyer without friends, clinging to each other because there’s no one else.

Except Travis doesn’t know Wes exists. Travis is just sending postcards to an address he probably picked out of the phone book.

What he has with Travis is a one-way connection, and maybe Wes is the only one reaching out and holding on, because he’s got nothing else.

\---

Postcard 39, postmark February 14, Roundup, Montana

A black card with a white outline in the middle, shaped like the state of Montana. At the top, in red letters, it says ‘Big Sky Country’, and at the bottom, it says ‘Montana’. The cut-out shape of the state has a picture of mountains, faded blue in the background, with a field of bright green grass and colorful pink and purple flowers in the foreground.

Travis writes:

_Met a woman at a bar, a passer-by like me. She was going West. I was heading East. We went to my room and—well, you don’t want to know about that. There was a lot of touching, not a lot of talking._

_She was gone when I woke up. I wonder if she ever thinks about the drifter she met, or if I’m just a memory she’s put away and never takes out. Like a postcard from a far-away place._

The words fall off the card like poetry, crooned out of ruby-red lips in a smoky bar as piano plays in the background.

\---

It’s been a shit day to compound a shit week and all Wes wants to do is collapse on the couch and open a bottle of wine. He grabs his mail and trudges up the steps, flipping through as he ascends. Junk mail, magazine he’ll never read, junk, phone bill, postcard—

Wes pauses on the landing, pulling the postcard out. The front has a beautiful, picturesque rocks, elaborately striped like someone drew on them with a ruler. The sky is a dusky rose, bringing out the pinks and oranges in the stones, and it’s like nothing Wes has ever seen before.

He flips it over. In one corner it simply says, _South Dakota, Badlands National Park_ , and underneath is Travis’s familiar scrawl. Just four words.

_It’s beautiful, isn’t it?_

And it’s been a shit day in an equally shitty week, but Wes flips the card back over and stares at the picture on the front and thinks, _Yeah, Travis, it is._

And suddenly he doesn’t feel so bad.

\---

Postcard 35, postmark December 3, Blaine, Washington

In the background, a blue shadow of a snow-capped mountain, rising out of the sky like a towering god. In the foreground, a bright yellow and red field of wildflowers, and behind the field, a dark patch of green forest. At the very bottom, in neat, curling script, it says ‘Mount Rainier’. 

Travis writes:

_If I had a passport, I could head into Canada and drive all the way to Alaska._

_On second thought, I could probably do that anyway. Jump the fence and go. Mexico is the border everyone is worried about, not Canada._

_Who knows. The next postcard you get might be foreign._

(It’s not.)

\---

“How’s it going?” Alex eventually asks, and Wes has to take a moment to shift gears from the case they’re collaborating on to himself.

He shakes his head. “Uh, good. Things are good. I’m good. You?” Wes absently doodles a bunch of grapes on the corner of a sticky-note. 

“I’m good too.” There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and a brief rustle of papers. “How are things with your postcard guy?”

“Travis? That’s going good too.” And then, even though he knows she doesn’t really care, he tells her, “He’s heading this way. Got a card from a vineyard in northern Cali.” He adds a bottle of wine to the grape doodles. “I mean, I don’t think he’ll come here, he always seems to circle LA without actually stopping in, but who knows, right?”

There’s a long silence on her end, long enough that Wes’s head comes up and he queries, “Alex? You still there?”

“Oh my god,” she breathes, surprised wonder in her voice. “Oh my _god_.”

“What?” Now he sits up, frowning across his office like he can see her and work out what she’s thinking from her facial expressions. “What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just…no. It’s nothing.”

Wes’s brow furrows. “It must be something.”

“Oh, no, it’s definitely something.” Before he can ask, she declares, “But I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your girlfriend anymore. You get to figure this one out yourself.” She takes a slow breath. “But I’m your friend, so be careful, alright?”

“Okay,” he agrees without knowing what he’s agreeing too. They may not be together anymore, but he still cares about her. So if she wants him to be careful about…whatever, then he will.

It’d be a lot easier if she’d tell him what he had to be careful _of_ …

But she won’t tell him, even though he drops several subtle hints throughout the conversation, so he finally gives up and pushes it aside.

It’s probably nothing anyway.

\---

Postcard 10, postmark October 20, Flatgap, Kentucky

A cartoon picture of a pig wearing a bib, sitting at a table with a full breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon and hash browns in front of it. A speech bubble says, ‘Yum!’

Travis writes:

_Picked up a girl by the side of the road. Bought her lunch and talked to her for three hours. Then I drove her home. I’ve never seen so many happy tears._

\---

It’s a black rectangle, with a silhouette of the Space Needle in the middle in lime green. Only at the base of the Space Needle is a tangle of roots, like the base of a tree.

Wes has no idea what the image symbolizes, but he stops and studies the postcard and he thinks, _Travis would like this._

He shakes his head. What is he thinking? Travis would like it? So what? Even if he _did_ buy the postcard, it’s not like he could send it. Travis doesn’t have an address, nothing permanent, at least, nothing Wes knows.

Travis doesn’t even know who Wes is. Even with an address, Wes wouldn’t be confident enough to send a postcard.

“Hey, Mitchell!” Wes glances up, sees Rodriguez waving at him across the lobby. “Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Wes waves a hand, contemplating the postcard. His co-worker calls his name again, and Wes bites his lip and gives in, tossing down a couple of bucks for the card.

He tucks it in his briefcase, and if he pulls it out several times during the conference and stares at it contemplatively, well, no one has to know.

\---

Postcard 61, postmark December 24th, New York City, New York.

A picture of the Christmas tree at Rockafeller center, all lit up with a massive star at the top. In one corner, snow-capped red and green letters spell, ‘Merry Christmas!’

Travis writes:

_Christmas in the big city. I’ve never felt lonelier. No one knows me here._

_I wish I was home._

\---

When he gets home from Seattle, there’s another postcard. This time from San Francisco. The words are wistful and nostalgic, and it makes even Wes’s throat a little tight.

Wes places the thumbtack with nervous fingers, bites his lip as he loops the red string. He follows the trajectory, from South Dakota to that little town in Utah to the vineyard up north all the way down to San Fran.

He tries to guess where Travis going next, but he keeps coming back to LA, circling his finger over the one spot Travis never sent a postcard from, not in three years.

It looks like Travis is finally coming home.

\---

Postcard 79, postmark September 23, San Francisco, California

A picturesque view of the Golden Gate bridge, done in a retro style. Boats tug along in the water under the bridge, and white clouds puff lazily through a sunset pink-orange sky, dancing over round green hills.

Travis writes:

_It’s been a while since I’ve been so close to home. I’ve been homesick a lot on this trip, but this is the worst it’s been. I want to see my moms. I want to go hug my brothers and sisters and see if I got any new nieces and nephews in the interim. I want to walk the streets and see all the places I visited when I was a kid._

_I want to go home._

\---

“This is good,” Alex says at lunch. “You can meet him.”

Wes almost drops his fork. “What? No. That’s—why would I meet him?”

“Because you’re getting these postcards from him.” She points her fork in his direction. “You’re clearly…” She pauses, so obviously searching for a word that isn’t ‘ _obsessed_ ’, and finally settles on, “infatuated. If he’s coming here, you might as well see him.”

“I thought you didn’t like this,” Wes accuses, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t,” she admits freely with a shrug. “I don’t like it at all. I don’t think it’s healthy to get so…infatuated with someone you’ve never met. It’s like falling for a celebrity. So maybe if you meet him, you’ll stop romanticizing him and throw the postcards out.” She shrugs again.

Wes looks down, picking at his salad. “It’s not like that, Alex, you make it sound like I’m in love with him or something.” He chuckles, and she doesn’t. He stabs a crouton with more force than necessary. “Besides, I doubt he’ll come, he’s always sidestepped LA. And, anyway, I doubt he’ll be interested in meeting me.”

“Even if you have a roadmap of his travels on your wall?” she asks, and he honestly can’t tell what her tone is here, if she’s amused or worried or kind of frustrated.

“Even if.” He takes a swallow of water. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not meeting him.”

Her eyebrows go up, and she doesn’t utter a word, but the look on her face says everything.

\---

Postcard 49, postmark June 13, Marquez, Texas

A stylized drawing of a man with a Stetson, astride a rearing golden-brown horse, smiling out of the card with a perfect cloudless blue sky behind him.

Travis writes:

_Got myself hired as a ranch hand for the summer. I’m gonna be a cowboy!_

\---

_I feel like I know you_ , he writes, sitting on the floor half-drunk. He’s got a glass of wine in one hand and a pen in the other and Travis’s postcards spread across the coffee table, bright glossy pictures gleaming up at him.

_I feel like I could care about you_ , he adds to the Seattle postcard, washing the words down with half a glass of wine. They slither out of his pen onto the cardboard, words he’d never dare write or even think about if he was sober, but he’s got alcohol running through his veins and that makes him brave.

_I think_

He taps his pen against his lips, frowning slightly, eyes roaming over the postcards. Dozens of postcards, carefully catalogued on his wall, and Alex had asked _why are you so invested in this?_ and Wes thinks he maybe finally knows the answer.

_I think maybe I’m half in love with you and I’ve never even met you._

He scoffs, downing the rest of his wine as he stares at the words, crooked and slanting across the card at an angle.

How stupid. Confessing all of this to someone he’s probably never even going to meet. It’s not like Travis even knows he exists.

What did Alex say? It’s like falling in love with a celebrity. It doesn’t actually mean a thing.

Wes spins the card in his hand, watching the words blur in the evening light. The wine burns in his blood, but it’s a courage that doesn’t mean a thing. Just like these feelings.

Even if he had an address, he wouldn’t send it.

\---

Postcard 6, postmark August 31, Milligan, Nebraska

A field of sunflowers, drawn to look like a watercolor painting, bright splashes of yellow floating below azure skies on long green stalks.

Travis writes:

_Was driving along when the sky turned green and sirens started blaring. It kind of freaked me out. Turns out tornados are a thing here._

_The McKellers were kind enough to lend me their cellar. Spent the night; kids were old pros at this. Had canned beans for dinner and told stories in the dark and listened to the radio._

_Only damage was a bit of fence. Helped them fix it and they gave me breakfast. Nice people._

Towards the end of the card, his handwriting gets cramped and squished, like there’s just too much he wanted to say and simply not enough space.

\---

A week passes, and the postcards stay on the table. Wes tries to put them away, but every time he makes a move, he sees his postcard in the middle, staring accusingly up at him with words he only half-remembers writing and feelings he refuses to admit to when he’s sober.

So the cards stay where they are, because Wes acts confident, but he’s not as courageous as he seems, and there are some things he’s not ready to face.

And then he gets a picture in the mail.

Not a postcard. An actual, bona-fide photograph. For a moment, Wes isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. It takes him a second.

It’s a selfie of a dark-skinned man with the brightest blue eyes Wes has ever seen, staring into the camera like he’s looking into Wes’s soul. He’s standing in front of a junkyard, and there’s a look on his face that’s a little bit nervous and a little excited.

Is this…?

Throat tight, Wes flips it over.

_Finally made it home_ , Travis writes. _This’ll be the last card for a while. I think I might try staying for a bit._

_Thanks for hanging with me all these years._

Wes swallows, throat tight, and feels something giddy and hot in his stomach.

He doesn’t look at the coffee table.

\---

On Friday, Wes goes and buys the tackiest ‘Welcome to LA’ postcard he can find. On the back he writes, _Welcome home, Travis._

Then, using the internet on his phone and Travis’s photo, Wes tracks down the junkyard. There’s enough of the sign in the picture that Wes finally identifies Money’s Auto Shop, a small, shady-looking outfit on the edge of town.

Wes sits in his car for ten minutes, staring at the building and trying to imagine Travis inside. He talks himself out of it. Then he talks himself into it. He climbs out of the car. He gets back in the car.

He finally shuffles up to the mailbox and drops the postcard in like he’s leaving a bomb. He races back to the car, feeling like any second now Travis is going to come out and get the mail and catch him red-handed, but no one appears.

It isn’t until he’s driving away that he relaxes even marginally. It’s nothing to freak out about.

It’s not like he signed his name or left a return address or anything.

\---

Wes sits on his couch, staring at a map with criss-crossing lines of red string. A pile of postcards lay scattered on the coffee table, seventy-nine cards and one photograph from a man he’s never met, and he idly flips one of them in his hand, words spinning and blurring into a dark smear.

_Why are you so invested in this?_

Lines of red string and the bright, happy feelings invoked whenever he got a new card.

A box of neatly organized postcards and a tacky card welcoming him home.

A piece of cardboard with the words to his soul written on them.

_I think maybe I’m half in love with you and I’ve never even met you._

Slowly, Wes sets the postcard from Seattle down and goes to the kitchen, where he proceeds to very quietly get drunk.

\---

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Squinting against the pounding in his skull, Wes staggers to the front door. “Shut up already!” The knocking makes his head ache, a drummer’s cadence in his brain that makes him wants to curse the world.

He hopes that whoever is on the other side of the door has a damn good reason for waking him like this.

He fumbles the locks—hangover will do that—and finally swings the door open, a growl on his lips. “What do you—?”

Travis stands there, hand half-raised to knock again, and the words die in Wes’s mouth.

The other man grins, a bright, white smile that sends nervous flutters through Wes’s stomach. Or maybe he just wants to throw up, he’s not sure.

“Hi there.”

Wes blinks and says intelligently, “Um.”

That perfect smile never falters. Travis sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Hey. Uh, I got your postcard.”

“I never put my name on it,” Wes denies, and Travis’s grin grows a fraction wider and Wes flushes. So much for anonymity. Wasn’t the whole point of not signing it so Travis wouldn’t know who he was?

Travis chuckles. “You were pretty much the only person I told I was coming home, other than my family, and when I saw the postcard I figured…” He shrugs and holds out his hand. “I’m Travis Marks.”

_I know_ , is on the tip of Wes’s tongue. Instead he swallows, blinks against the headache, and slowly holds out his own hand. “Wes Mitchell.”

“Nice to meet you, Wes.”

Wes nods, and doesn’t say anything, and slowly takes his hand back. The silence lingers between them, solidifying and cautiously becoming awkward. Wes looks down at his shoes, wishing for once that he was better with people.

“Do you want to come in?” he blurts, because he kind of doesn’t want Travis to leave just yet.

Travis shifts, and he smiles, and Wes really can’t tell if the flutters moving through him are from the hangover or not. “Sure.”

Wes musters up half a smile and holds the door open, letting Travis step inside.

And then he remembers the wall.

_Oh shit._

“Wow.” Travis’s eyebrows head for his hairline, and, like most people would, he heads towards the wall to check it out while Wes panics by the door.

Travis sees the postcards on the table, and Wes can identify the moment he realizes what he’s looking at, and Wes honestly thinks about running away. No one’s ever said he was brave.

“Wow,” Travis breathes again, in a totally different tone than before. He turns to look at Wes. Wes just doesn’t have the context to understand what expression he’s seeing on Travis’s face. “This is…something.”

“Um, it was just…I kept getting the postcards so I—it’s just a hobby—”

Travis laughs, face easing, and while Wes doesn’t _relax_ , he stops feeling like he needs to bolt right this instant. “Relax, man. This is…” He looks at the wall, quietly shaking his head. “I’m a little flattered, actually.”

Wes licks his lips, taking a step away from the door. “It was…kind of like going on an adventure.” Travis just looks at him, and Wes ducks his head. “I’m not…really the adventurous type, so it was…nice.”

“Yeah? That’s good.” The other man picks up a card from the table, face softening with nostalgia as he reads. “I remember this…” He picks up another card, and Wes’s throat feels tight.

“You can borrow them if you want,” he mutters to the floor.

Travis looks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wes takes two big strides across the room, sweeping the postcards into the shoebox. He doesn’t bother ordering them, because he’s pretty sure Travis won’t really care. “It’s fine. You can just…bring them back when you’re done. Or not. I mean, you’re the one who wrote them, if you want to keep them, that’s fine—”

He’s babbling and he knows it, so he’s kind of glad when Travis gently takes the box from his hands and says, “Thanks, Wes. I’ll bring them back when I’m done.”

Wes slowly closes the door behind him as he leaves. Then he leans his forehead on the door and slowly exhales, feeling like he just went through a marathon without stretching.

\---

It isn’t until later, after he’s thrown up (twice) and drunk some water and downed a couple of aspirin, that he panics. Because he comes out, and he sees the blank coffee table, and he realizes he put _all_ of the postcards in the shoebox.

Including the postcard he wrote.

Wes runs a shaky hand over his face and decides he’s going to have to move.

\---

“You’re not going to move, Wes,” Alex says a few days later when he tells her.

“Of course I am, Alex,” he replies, vigorously chopping onions. “I have to. He knows where I live, and he knows what I look like. My only option here is to move so far away he can’t track me down.”

“Are we talking the next county here, or out of state?” Alex asks mockingly. “Ooh, do you have to flee the country? I think Morocco doesn’t have extradition.”

“Haha, very funny.”

She sighs. “Wes, you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing? You think it’s creepy I like him. Thanks for giving me the heads up, by the way, I know you knew before I did.”

“I’m sorry if I was more aware of your feelings than you were. Actually, no, I’m not. You should pay better attention.” She sighs again, shuffling something on her end of the line. “And I don’t know that it’s _creepy_. I just don’t think you should focus so much on someone you don’t know.”

“Like a celebrity,” he says.

“Like a celebrity,” she confirms.

There’s a quiet knock on his door. Rolling his eyes, he puts the knife down and heads over, phone still stuck to his ear. “Well, miss observant, if I’m not supposed to move, what do _you_ think I should do, hmm?”

“I think you—”

But Wes doesn’t hear the rest of her words, because he’s just opened the door and Travis is standing there.

He gives Wes a little smile and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Hey.”

Wes swallows. “Alex, I’m gonna have to call you back.” On autopilot, he disconnects and lowers the phone, staring at Travis. The urge to bolt and never look back is rising again, and why can’t he move away again? He’s pretty sure Alex never actually gave him a reason he _couldn’t_ …

“So,” Travis says, when it’s clear Wes isn’t going to say anything. “I, uh, got your card.”

“I’m sorry,” Wes babbles instantly, the words sitting on his tongue ready to leap out. “I didn’t mean for you to get that, and it probably sounds completely insane, or…I don’t even know, I’m just so—”

“Woah, hey.” Travis holds out a hand, and Wes obediently stops talking. “It’s not like I’m _mad_ about it, or anything. I mean, I didn’t realize how many cards I’d sent. I can sort of see why you’d feel like you knew me.”

Travis rocks on his heels, not quite looking at Wes. “Only, I don’t exactly know you, do I?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really—”

“I’d like to rectify that,” Travis says, and Wes is once more stunned into silence. He gapes at the other man.

“What?”

Bemused, Travis licks his lips. “I’d like to get to know you. Go out with you and talk. Like a date,” he clarifies, because Wes’s brain has short-circuited and it is apparently showing on his face.

“A date,” Wes repeats. “With me.” Then, finally, an actual question, though it comes out as a bit of a squeak he’s not proud of. “ _Why?_ ”

Travis shrugs, like it’s no big deal to ask complete strangers out on dates. “You bought me a card when I got home. I kind of want to get to know the sort of person who’d do that.” Then he grins, a rakish sort of smile that makes Wes flush. “Plus, you’re pretty cute.”

Wes grips the doorway and swallows, debating. He wants to. He definitely wants to. He knows exactly what Alex would say, but he puts that thought out of his mind and thinks about what _he_ wants, right this very moment, and what he wants is to have a date with Travis. Get to know him beyond words on a postcard.

“Okay,” he says absently, still reeling from this unexpected turn of events. “When are you free?”

“Uh…” Travis glances at his watch. “Now? Otherwise we can figure something out for this weekend…”

“Now is fine.” Wes licks his lips, swallows his nerves. “Now is good.”

“Yeah? Perfect.” Travis beams at him, and Wes can feel the flush creeping down his neck. He hopes that reaction will go away soon. “Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere.” At Travis’s confusion, Wes bites back a smile and steps back, giving Travis room to step inside. “The first thing you should know about me is that I like to cook…”

\---

Postcard 1. No postmark, just the date handwritten in the top corner. June 15.

A retro-eque card with a faded palm tree on the front, a white sand beach below. The background is a mix of oranges and pinks, and a bright red sun hangs low above a perfect line of ocean blue. Bold white letters curve along the front, saying ‘Greetings from Los Angeles!’

Travis writes:

_Hi there. My name is Travis Marks. I don’t know you, and you probably don’t know me. Don’t worry, I’m not a weirdo. I’m not going to ask anything from you._

_I’m going on a trip soon, taking my bike and hitting the open road. I’m going to be sending postcards here. I don’t care what you do with them—keep them, throw them away, burn them for firewood, it doesn’t make a difference to me. But I don’t really have anyone else to send them to, so I just need someone to write to. Otherwise it’s going to be a pretty lonely journey._

_Anyway. I hope, if you do read the cards, you enjoy them. I’m going on an adventure. Maybe you can come along too._

**Author's Note:**

> I literally finished this story last night, and it is beta’d only by myself, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know. I would appreciate it.
> 
> All cities and towns Travis sends postcards from are real cities and towns, according to city-data.com. I have never been to any of these cities and towns, and I know nothing about them. They were chosen at random, mostly because I liked the names.
> 
> This story was EXTREMELY difficult for me to write. The boys are so much younger than in canon, so it was hard to get their voices down, especially since Travis is mostly postcards until right at the end. Hopefully I kept them in character, and hopefully you enjoyed it.


End file.
